Free The Year of the Hare by Arto Paasilinna

good-bye to Savolainen and Hannikainen.
    Hannikainen said: “If you ever get near Nilsiä, look me up. I’ll definitely have my research complete by then.”
    It was a gorgeous day. They sang as they went along. The sun shone; there was no hurry. From time to time, they let the cows graze peacefully along the ditches, and at midday the beasts lay down for an hour or two, ruminating. Meanwhile, the cowherds went for a swim. Irja looked marvelous, sinking into the cool forest pool with her sumptuous breasts.
    In the afternoon, a large brown cow began complaining. It moaned quietly, closing its moist eyes, and seemed unwilling to keep up with the other cows. Nor would it eat with the others; it just drank water. It strayed from the herd, mooing querulously, and walked between two trees, leaned a flank against one, and turned to look at Irja.
    “That one’s going to calve soon,” Irja said anxiously.
    To Vatanen the cow didn’t look any more round bellied than the others, but no doubt Irja knew what she was talking about.
    “If we don’t reach the road soon, she’ll have it here in the forest,” Irja said.
    “What if I go ahead to Sonkajärvi,” Vatanen said, “and bring back a vet?”
    “Nonsense! It can drop the calf here. It’s healthy enough, that cow. And as for you, you’re certainly up to carrying a calf.”
    After a while, the cow began to paw the ground and arch its back, clearly in pain. It let out urgent intermittent lowings, sounds you’d never expect from a cow. Irja spoke consolingly to it; the beast responded by mooing more quietly. Finally, it went to lie down.
    After an hour, Irja said: “It’s on its way. Come and help me pull it out.”
    The calf came out slowly, the cow groaning in agony; they had to pull hard. Then the calf dropped to the ground—the cow had heaved to its feet. The calf was slimy with mucus, and the cow, completely at peace already, began licking it.
    Vatanen dug a pit a hundred yards away and buried the afterbirth. He came back to Irja and the calf, which was trying to struggle to its feet but continually flopping back, still too weak. It did know how to suck on a teat, though: it knelt down under the cow and gorged itself.
    Obviously, a newborn calf like that couldn’t totter through the forest to the road. Should it be killed? Definitely not. Irja and Vatanen settled on Irja’s going on ahead with the cows, and Vatanen’s carrying the calf on his shoulders and bringing up the rear with the mother cow.
    Vatanen pulled a blanket out of his knapsack, tied rope to the corners, and constructed a sort of hammock that he could carry on his back. As he squeezed the calf into the blanket bag, it lowed with fear, but to no avail. It was still incapable of managing on its own legs. The cow looked on calmly as the calf was tucked into the blanket.
    Vatanen heaved the calf onto his back; its hooves tapped the back of his neck rhythmically as he plodded along. The hare was somewhat nonplussed. It loped nervously about at Vatanen’s feet but then settled down to the slow advance. Calf on back, Vatanen led the way forward through the forest. The pensive cow ambled quietly behind him, occasionally licking her calf’s head, and the hare undulated along at the rear.
    It surprised Vatanen that the calf didn’t get an upset stomach, swinging in its hammock to the rhythm of his tread. But then it had been swinging many months like that in its mother’s belly. What a trip! Burdened by his calf, Vatanen was in a sweat. Gnats had come out, too: they were flying into his nostrils, and, with both his hands gripping the ropes, and the knapsack dangling on his belly, he couldn’t reach up to flick them away.
    “Loving animals can be a heavy load,” he muttered to himself as a sprig of spruce lashed his face in a thicket.
    But Vatanen’s load was not yet full.
    He took a shortcut through a bog. “I’m not going to go all the way around that,” he decided. “It’d add half a mile at